


Simple Addition

by Beatriceorme



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatriceorme/pseuds/Beatriceorme





	1. One...

**ONE...**

 

“Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick!”  
  
“You OK in there?”  
  
He looked down at the Versace trousers pooled around his ankles. _I’m a 43 year old, soon to be divorced man hiding in a toilet, puking my guts out, on what could be the biggest night of my life, while the elite of the Business await and the whole world watches just because someone from my past could possibly, maybe, perhaps show up. Oh, I’m fucking great!_  
  
“I’m fine,” he called, pulling up his pants. As he tucked in his silk shirt, he was impressed by the lack of wrinkles in the fabric of the pants. _‘Maybe $3,000 wasn’t too much to pay for this tux.’_  
  
One more deep breath, a flick of the handle to start the flush, and he emerged out into the impossibly large and overly decorated men’s restroom at the Kodak Theatre. Heels clicks echoed off the Mediterranean tile on the floor as he walked to the sinks, hoping he was alone. He had no desire for small talk. _Imagine that, me not wanting to talk!_ He just needed to splash some water on his face, calm his nerves a bit, so when he did return, all the curious stares would see was a man giddily anxious over his chance at immortality. The water was cool, soothing his burning eyes and dampening the cuffs of his shirt. _Dry in an instant,_ he thought, watching the tiny whirlpool of water trip around the marble basin below. _Just like the unwrinkleable pants._  
  
“Man, you OK?”  
  
His eyes met the intruder’s in the mirror. Tiny droplets hung on the hairs of his slightly graying bread, some sliding down his neck, darkening the pristine white of his collar. He didn’t immediately recognize the man behind him; couldn’t put a face with a name. One of those rappers who parlayed one gold record into an acting career. _Always cheapens the profession, doesn’t it?_ he thinks as he forces a smile to his lips. “I’m fine, thank you.”  
  
“I’d be puking my fucking guts out if I was in your shoes,” the rapper said when he moved to the sink on the left. Hands plunge into the streaming water, splashing the inlaid countertop, “Nervous as hell.”  
  
He doused his face one more time with the cool water before examining it in the antique mirror above the sink. That’s what they would all see. His face would show only the emotion appropriate for someone nominated for an Oscar and nothing more. He might be up to win in the director’s category, but he was still a consummate actor. He would put on a performance, never showing that his insides were doing Olympic-size flips of glee, while running away scared shitless at the same time. His face would never betray what he truly felt over the prospect of walking back into the Theatre to see him.  
  
“Loved the movie, just loved it!” the very tall, purple suited rapper said as he shook his hands free of unwanted water.  
  
Some drops landed on his tux, but he didn’t worry. This was a magical suit, wasn’t it?  
  
“When he found that ring, man, I just bawled, broke down like a baby and cried.”  
  
“Yes, that was my favorite moment. Very poignant.” With his nerves steeled, his face molded into place, he was anxious to begin the play.  
  
“What is it with you and rings, man?” the pseudo-actor smiled a toothy grin as he rubbed his hands dry on a crisp linen towel. “First you want to lose one, then all you want to do is find one.”  
  
He laughed mildly at the weak joke. _Like I haven’t heard that one before._ “Just fate, I guess.” His hand was poised on the door. _If I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll be running back to the stall and start this thing all over again._ “I should get back. Don’t want to miss my cue, you know.”  
  
The other man laughed. “Sure, sure, sorry for keeping you. Just want you to know, my money’s on you and _Isaac_. Good luck.”  
  
 _Good luck? That’s what he says to me?_ His mind raced as he walked back to the Theatre, sinking into incredibly rich carpet of the hallway. _Idiot doesn’t even know that it’s bad luck to say 'Good luck' before a performance!_ And even though this was just the Oscars, and he was technically supposed to be himself, this would be the performance of his life. Exuberant winner or gracious loser, it didn’t matter, he could play both with equal ease. It was the other role, the one that had sent him scurrying to the rest room in the first place and brought his catered meal back up his throat, that he was uncertain and ill-prepared for. He would be forced to play the confident, self assured, content, supremely happy man when he looked into those eyes and that was everything he was not.  
  
Now he used words like apathetic, bitter, regretful, hollow to describe who he had become. Oh, and don’t forget lonely. That was his constant companion; it sat on the sink when he brushed his teeth in the morning, it drove to the office right beside him, ate meals with him, watched TV and read alongside him and it always snuggled him closely when the final light went out at night. Not that he was alone; there was a constant stream of bodies that flowed through his days and nights, and they could make him laugh and become angry, they would comfort and cajole, they would listen to him and he would give advice in return. In the beginning, those bodies had tried, the more astute ones, anyway, to banish the dark spot from his soul, but it never worked, no matter how sincere the effort. The ache had come to define him and he guarded it fiercely; it was the only remaining reminder of him.  
  
How long had it been? Three years, maybe more, since the last time they had been together in the same room. At the 10th anniversary of the release, that’s when it was. There had been no time for anything personal, just in and out with cameras flashing in their faces all the time, picture after picture of the cast, or just the four of them; each one smiling broadly, each one showing, on the surface, at least, the camaraderie forged over long months of shooting, a friendship that could never be broken by time and distance. That was true in some cases, but the one that mattered most to him had been irrecoverably torn asunder on a stretch of California beach 4 years earlier.  
  
Since then, their paths had not crossed, both keeping to different schedules, social circles and continents. The constant deluge of information about his whereabouts made it extremely easy to stay away; just check any movie magazine and where ever he was, be someplace else. He had had to read about the two back-to-back Golden Globes wins on the internet, (Thankfully, his own had been the year before), the SAG award for lead actor, (his the year after), but the press release showing a gap toothed grin with the People’s Choice, (he had never received one of those), had been sent via email by a concerned friend. It was immediately deleted.  
  
When the movie monopolized his every waking moment (a few sleeping ones, too), he had been able to shut it all out without anyone shaking their heads at him sadly and whispering words like denial and pity behind their hands. He did forget, briefly, when shooting scripts needed to be revised, and budgets were argued over. The constant coddling of the suits and the dance with the press wore on his nerves until they were bleeding and raw. But, this had been good. This meant he was bleeding for some other reason then him. The actually filming had been a dream: the actors, lovely, hard working people all, melded together like family, and that was saying quite a bit when you considered that one of the leads was a 150 ft wall of water. The crew anticipated his every need, ideas and suggestions passing among them all with one goal in mind: a great film. The four month shoot had been arduous, dangerous, (the 150 ft wall of water, remember?), bone numbingly exhausting. But, as the crews packed in the last battery pack, and he was saying his farewells to the city of Galveston, he secretly wished for four more months of grueling work. He knew what awaited him in LA: weeks of editing and an empty house.  
  
Even though she was an equal partner in the production company, it was her choice to travel to the location in Texas. She stayed and he went. Not that the separation would be difficult, they had been sharing only an address and a public image of happiness for years. For the girls, for his career, for the sake of the business were the main excuses given when the charade of their marriage began. Now they had had so much practice at being married for the camera, it had become second nature to them both. Her absence from the filming would not put a burden on him; he had been without her for the last 7 years.  
  
The ultimatum had come in the form of a hand scribbled note left hanging on the refrigerator under a magnet used to hold his youngest daughter’s latest masterpiece. Only 5 words on the paper, yet it all began and ended for him right there: “Him or the girls. Decide.” He did. Broke the heart of his soul mate to devote his life to being the stable father he had never known. He had walked away, but the damage had already been done. What marriage could survive the past memories of perfection? That name was never mentioned, all remnants and reminders of his existence were expunged from their lives. It was hard on the girls explaining to them the total loss of one of their favorite “uncles”, but eventually, even they spoke of him less and less, until their lives were completely free.  
  
There were no physical manifestations left, yet still he remained in the heart. She had seen him in her husband’s eyes, in the way he sighed for no apparent reason. She had even felt him on the few times they had crowded naked on the bed desperately seeking a way to rekindle their lost passion. The final break had come with a simple touch. Washing those dishes that did not fit in the dishwasher after dinner, he was drying and their hands brushed briefly over a Dutch oven. It was the touch of a stranger. Quietly folding the dish towel, she had told him how things were going to play out. Separate but equal, to use that infamous phrase. He gave no protest, only nodded then left to remove his things to the spare bedroom. And it was in this state, one yet really two, that he had left for Texas to begin filming.  
  
She gave him the news via email. Just like her last message, this one, too, was short and to the point. “Just like you, I found another man.” Only his secretary, who had worked for the company for the past 10 years and was fairly up-to-date on all matters, understood why the usually sedate loner of a director chose that night to go on a drinking bender that halted filming for two days. On his return to the set, bleary-eyes and chagrined, he was no less hard working and creative, but his slumped shoulders and apathetic demeanor told a different story. Several times he was heard to mutter, “7 years! He could have been with me. 7 years!” But, since the hearers did not posses the knowledge of that secretary, those ramblings of the director were chalked up to the outpourings of the slightly cracked artistic mind.  
  
 _Isaac_ was paramount. Well, actually it was being distributed through New Line, but it was the most important thing in his life. Nothing could get in the way of its success. As a result, the ending of the sham marriage had to be postponed until after the premiere. That hadn’t stopped him from moving out and finding a small 3 bedroom bungalow tucked away in the hills of San Clemente, though. It only meant that the ‘happy’ couple met in the limo on the way to appearances. One slip up, a quick kiss between her and the ‘other man’ in what they thought was a deserted parking garage, and the news of yet another Hollywood marriage dying hit the papers with a splash. The sense of relief was so overwhelming, he had cried. Now, the only pretending he would be forced to show was about him.  
  
All the struggle and nervous breakdown inducing work obviously paid off; the movie had box office sellouts and became the critics' darling. It had been his insistence that the movie open during the fall dead zone, between the end of September and the Thanksgiving holiday: no block busters to contend with. It was either a stroke of genius or good luck, because _Isaac_ rode to the top of the charts for 6 weeks and was only knocked off by the latest _Harry Potter_. The buzz had begun immediately, but he really didn’t pay much attention; heard all the rumors before. _Isaac_ appeared on all the year end top ten lists, even made the cover of Newsweek. He went to the DGA awards, came home a winner; the LA and NY Film Critics soon followed. The Golden Globes found him nominated, but outdone by Stephen Soderberg. The Oscars were announced, his name included, and the congratulatory messages began pouring in. Most he sent to the recycle bin, enjoying the ding when they had been removed from his life forever. A few he kept; the ones from his brother and mother both making jokes about a ‘film family dynasty’, and the couple from his daughters; theirs filled with hugs and kisses.  
  
This morning he had checked in expecting the obligatory kisses to his ass and promises to enhance his performance in the bedroom; but when those had been tossed out, one still remained. He had sat there in his sparsely furnished living room, coffee cooling on the coaster at his left hand, just staring at his mailbox contents. There was no name, no indication who had sent it. The title of the message was a simple, “For You” and, inexplicably, this sent his stomach into a routine of round offs and tumbling moves to make Mary Lou proud. The minutes ticked by and he continued to stare. His screen saver kicked on. One flick of his finger against the mouse and the message appeared again. He knew it could not be from her, those had already been deleted. His family and friends all read and put in the appropriate folders. As he stared, he knew; didn’t know how or why, he just knew this one message could either be his salvation or his total destruction. He opened it and saw that it was both.  
  
 _Sean,_  
  
See you at the Oscars.  
  
Lij  
  
Scrambling away from the computer, he fell to the floor in his haste, legs tangling with the chair. He crawled away, gasping for breath, and managed to drag the chair into the kitchen before it gave up and let go. The door provided the needed support as he scratched his way back to his feet. It was flung open harshly, shattering 2 panes within its delicate design when it crashed into the wall. He stood on the back deck, unable to breathe, or think or do much of anything.  
  
 _Sean,_  
  
See you at the Oscars.  
  
Lij  
  
The pain and depravation of living without the one who completed him, the despair and burden over a life lived with a lie at its core, gushed forth and spilled all over the deck, the hillside, the neighborhood, his life. He allowed himself to mouth the name, while silent wracking sobs shook his body. He had forgiven her for what she had demanded of him all those years ago; she had only been protecting her family the best way she knew how. But, absolution for him had never been given. A gift had been bestowed on him in the form of a gawky, hyper, magically effervescent young man, and he had snubbed the divine by walking away. It didn’t matter in the least that he had turned away for all the right reasons; it was inconsequential when placed next to the fact he had abandoned true love for the sake of an uncomplicated life. Love was found once in a lifetime; he had held it briefly, and then opened his hand, letting it disappear. Actions of that magnitude just could not be forgiven.  
  
Their denouement had played out with the lights of his house glowering over their shoulders and the incoming tide drowning their feet. No words were said, only a piece of paper passed from one lover to another. A long stare out over the ocean, an inquiring look of expectation, a defeated shake of the head, followed by a heavy anguished sigh. The note was dropped as he walked away and the other lover watched it disappear with the tide.  
  
  
Insistent and repeated phone calls from his brother, who was attending the ceremony with him tonight, finally irritated him enough to put his once again naked and oozing wound back in his pocket to answer the phone. The rest of the morning was packed with the most insipid of preparations, which would have seemed exciting had they not been leading up to tonight. When the limo pulled up at his house, the mask went on; he was the witty nominee to the parasites on the red carpet, the hopeful director to those members of the production sitting around him, the nervous older sibling to his brother. All these he played perfectly, until an innocuous remark by one of the presenters, (something about helicopters), and the petrified and lonely man peeked out. That had sent him rushing out of the Theatre, praying to reach the rest room before his stomach did its appointed job in reverse.  
  
He had always known this day would come, when he would be forced to look into those eclipses again, and have his soul laid bare. But, so far his avoidance tango had served him well. If he had been the cosmic event coordinator, he would have placed this reunion right after his own eleventy-first birthday when he would be too old to do much of anything except drool. But, his people had not been consulted, so the fateful event would be played out when he was still in control of all his faculties, still able to plan for a future, and to remember his hurtful past.  
  
Conversation. A topic. Something simple to talk about, something safe and unimportant, that’s what he needed to devise. Have the script in his head so he wouldn’t be a babbling idiot when confronted by the one thing he yearned to hold, yet didn’t believe he deserved. He had run the scenario over in his mind a million times since this morning, and it had played out one of two ways: at the first flash of those eyes, he would crumble to the red carpet a sniveling mass of raw emotion, begging for just one touch while Joan and Melissa Rivers commented on his lack of style; or, he would stand there, statue like, as the paparazzi spun around them, unable to find the right words, the words that needed to be said, the words that would restore his heart to him - and that smile would walk away again, leaving him devoid of everything. The limo slipped into the long line to wait its turn at the Theatre entrance, and his script was still going back for revisions.  
  
The telecast was on one of those many commercials breaks, and he was able to sneak back to his seat without trouble or the intrusive camera in his face. The _Isaac_ section, 15 seats strong, was on the fifth row back in the middle section. Not too shabby considering they had neither Jude Law in the cast, nor Spike Jonez as their director. The little hurricane flick had shown itself proud tonight; nominated for 6, it had won best supporting actress, sound editing and original song. The losses to Richard and Weta in makeup and visual effects had been expected. Only one remained: Best Director. As he walked down the aisle to his seat, he had been scanning the crowd casually, attempting to catch of glimpse of him. If he only knew where he was sitting, he would be able to calculate the distance between, thus coming up with a rough estimate of the time it would take him to travel from there to here, and how long he had before making the fight or flight decision. But, he had not been among the glitterati gathered there. He wasn’t sure if he was elated or disappointed.  
  
As the red lights blinked on and the pageantry began again, he realized the whole ceremony would be over soon. _Perhaps he got held up at the airport, hotel, drive-thru, and wouldn’t make it._ That would mean an easy escape out the back and a long drive down the coast putting the distance between them again. The avoidance dance could continue.  
  
The writing awards given, another commercial followed and he was becoming almost buoyant at the obvious absence. The small talk muttered around him: promises of phone calls, the beginnings of deals, the snubbing of careers did not hold his interest. Looking at his watch 5 times in 10 minutes only added to his aggravation. He even toyed with the idea of just leaving now and forcing the presenters into making one of those lame ‘on his behalf’ speeches. The assured wrath of his mother if he did was enough to hold him to his seat.  
  
Best actor and actress went by with a blur. Couldn’t even tell you who won. His legs would not stay still; they were bouncing up and down, much to the consternation of Glenn Close who sat in front of him. His ears began to ring, and two trickles of sweat, one on his chest, the other between his shoulder blades, raced to see which could reach his waist first. His eyes were constantly darting back and forth, tongue wetting his dry lips. Everyone about him looked at his nervous state with sympathy; Best Director was next, of course he would be near panicking! And that was the beauty of it all, this was true acting. The possibility of winning was remote at best; all his apprehension and terror over seeing him again was channeled into his performance of the anxious nominee. No one knew the true reason for his agitation. His performance was brilliant! _Where's the Best Actor Oscar? It should be mine!_  
  
After the interminable waiting, and the ubiquitous honorary award, his time had come. PJ lumbered on to the stage, with shoes and a tie, and began to read the nominees. After this he could leave, he would be able to escape. With the names in alphabetical order, his was the first one read. A brief clip of the film was shown, (the water wall again), and appreciative and encouraging applause erupted. It was all background noise to him, the actions on stage far away. All his attention was focused on the one small hand that had been placed on his shoulder as his name was read. The warmth of that touch suffused through his body; a peace bleeding into his cracked soul. Lij. He didn’t need to turn to confirm who it was; he knew the feel of that hand intimately, the memories of his caresses had cradled him through countless tear filled and desolate nights. In the most instinctive of moves, he placed his hand atop and squeezed. The simple expression was returned. The reunion he had feared, agonized over, thought to avoid, danced around, pondered endlessly, begged incessantly for had all come down to this quiet moment.  
  
There was no time for more. He found himself hauled up by his brother while those around him were standing and cheering with tears in their eyes. Numb, he allowed his body to be pushed out into the aisle, his shoulder cold now that his hand was gone. Stumbling ahead, his vision locked onto PJ’s grinning face. In his hands the golden statue, the one prize coveted above all others in the Business, and it would be going home with him. All those Goonies jokes, the hobbit barbs, the closed doors and unreturned phone calls, the dismissals and disappointments could now be laid to rest at the feet of Oscar. This was the culmination of all his hard work and dreams. Yet, his mind was not on reaching the stage and taking his place in film history. No, he was craving that touch again. For 7 long years he had been deprived and, now that his senses had been reminded of heaven, he could not exist one more second without.  
  
A slight weight landed on his back and a giggle rang in his ear. Headless of the whole world watching, he spun around, bringing the weight crushing to his chest. He was no longer the geeky kid with the spikey hair. No, the frame he engulfed was that of a well muscled man. In those eyes the innocence and exuberance of youth had been supplanted with a knowing sadness that life brings to all who live it. And as he searched that bottomless blue, and the applause faded away to curious stares, he discovered what he had only secretly prayed for in the darkness of his heart, but never truly believed he ever had to right to claim as his own again. Love. One soft shake of a head, and he indeed did make film history by kissing his former male co-star right there in front of Jack Nicholson and everybody. It wasn’t a long kiss, or an exceptionally passionate one. It was one of acknowledgement, however, one of announcement and proclamation. That brief joining of lips spoke of the tale begun in New Zealand and the love that continued still.  
  
The Theatre was absolutely, morgue at midnight, complete vacuum silent, as he bounded up the stairs to take the award from PJ’s hands. A knowing look was in that hobbitesque face as they embraced fondly. Taking a deep breath and with the words of his publicist running through his head, ( _shut up, Shut Up, SHUT UP!_ ), he faced the sea of shocked faces.  
  
“Thank you, Academy, for noticing the little film that could. My gratitude extends not only to those who gave heart and soul, blood and tears to this film, but also to those who purchased the tickets with their hard earned money and joined in the experience of that fateful day in Galveston, TX. Congratulations to all of Isaac’s winners this evening. I am indeed humbled to be in your company. It is a thrill to receive this award from PJ, a man I greatly admire. And I can say with the utmost affection, that I am truly grateful _The Hobbit_ was last year. I would like to send hugs and kisses to my two daughters, Alexandra and Elizabeth, who never go a day without some word to keep their old man humble. And finally,” Hazel eyes locked onto blue, “to my heart’s desire. Words are far too frail a thing to hold all that I feel for you in my soul. But, since that is all that I have at my disposal, these must suffice: I’m sorry, the wait is over, it begins here, and I love you, Elijah Jordan Wood.”  
  



	2. ...and One...

**...and One...**

 

“Fuck this shit!”  
  
He got as far as the end of the receiving ramp this time before turning back. The cigarette he had been smoking soon joined the others in the pile made over the last hour and a half of his standing in the back of the Kodak Theatre, too scared to go and petrified not to.  
  
This should happen in a less public place; something intimate, a little more personal. _What? So you can be all alone when he tells you no, when he shouts that he told you all of this 7 years ago on that fucking beach, and the sick hope you’ve been carrying with you like that goddamn Ring is as false as the happy camper act you put on every damn day of your life!_ No, public was better. He would never shout like that, lose his composure in front of Jack Nicholson and everybody. He had changed, but not that much. It had to be public. But, at the Oscars, for Christ’s sake? _Well, where else? Too much of a wanker to say anything to him at the _Isaac_ premiere. No, you just stood in the shadows, watching him, devouring him, until it got to be too much and you had to rush back to your car and whack off in tears and shame. _ Besides, SHE had been there; still standing beside him, still kissing his cheek, still married to him. But, she wasn’t anymore, or wouldn’t be soon.  
  
That email from a concerned friend had shown him all the nasty details of the break up, and try as he might to be sad that another marriage had bitten the dust, he just couldn’t. The tears had come over the pain he must be feeling, but the dance of joy over his freedom, (FINALLY!), had been so loud the upstairs neighbors had called the cops. Or gendarmes, he should say. Didn’t think about what he was doing, didn’t pack or even turn off the computer; just grabbed his passport, CD player and what was left of his hope and hailed the first cab he could find to the airport. The idea of the Oscars had come to him while in New York. He had stopped there to say hello to his sister and snatch a much needed nap, (not to mention shove some clothes into a bag), before he was skyward again and headed in the right direction. It wasn’t until he found himself standing in his hotel room with three pairs of dirty jeans, six rumpled t-shirts, one pair of mismatched socks and only the boxers he had on did he stop and think about what he was really doing.  
  
How long had it been? The circus over the anniversary, a little over three years ago. A constant stream of interviews, parties, photo sessions with something or someone always standing between them. As if the breach created on that beach seven years ago wasn’t enough. He knew then the marriage was over, could tell by the little things: the place of a hand, a turn of the head, and the lack of love in those beautiful eyes. He just knew by watching him, but had been too much of a coward to corner him and say so. Besides, it wasn’t his right, wasn’t his place to be concerned anymore.  
  
From project to appearance, from rally to cause, he had watched it all, everything he was involved in, from the high profile, (political rallies), to the obscure, (reading “The Hobbit” to inner-city kids). He was a non-stop flurry of motion, working and speaking, constantly moving. Their paths never crossed, though; he had made sure that they wouldn’t. Refused to be that pathetic, throwing himself out there just to see it there was the tiniest spark left. No, he had been told to go away, and like the good little boy he was, he did, never looking back, never stopping to put up a fight, never standing his ground and demanding that he be heard.  
  
He had tried to dump that guileless child in the garbage behind some skanky dive in the bowels of what passes for celebrity life. He was a man now, all grown up at 33, a man who only had to snap his fingers and 12 choices were presented to him on a silver platter. A force to be reckoned with, but not when it came to him. The opportunity to have his voice heard had long since passed; he had let his last chance flow out with the tide.  
  
The child did not go quietly into the good night, however. He would pop up, squeezing out the mature adult at the most inopportune moments. And when the world grew dark, the walls of yet another hotel room closed in, or keys were left abandoned somewhere, that child’s first response was to hit speed dial #1 and wait to hear that comforting voice. He never allowed it to ring for more than 2 times before hanging up. And the world grew darker, the walls crushed him, and those keys were never found. Once while in Singapore, on a shoot that had gone from bad to worse, and he lay huddled in the corner of his dismal room sick as a dog for 3 days over some bad sushi that he never would have allowed him to eat in the first place, speed dial #1 had rung for 5 times before it was answered. The automated voice very politely told him that number was no longer in service. His last tangible link was gone.  
  
 _So what makes you think he wants to see you now, dickweed?_ The sales lady at the Gucci store had very coyly asked him for his autograph and, by rote, he agreed. Anything to make things go faster. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and suddenly realized the color of the shirt he was wearing. He had bought the maroon thing out of reflex; it was the one color that brought out the blue in his eyes the best, and it was his favorite color. _As if that won’t be obvious._ He angrily changed into the plain white one.  
  
After Singapore, he threw himself into everything and everybody regardless of the consequences or danger. He didn’t have a death wish, really. How can you when you were already dead? Flying lessons, shark diving, rally racing, anything that had an edge to it, anything that would pump up his natural self-preservation instinct and leave him panting and tingling with life. He sought out projects that would allow him to do his own stunts, that were shooting in the remotest of locations. And, so what if his soul still cowered in the corner of that room, desperately afraid and lost? If his body was racked with aches and bruises, he was still alive, right?  
  
  
Soon even that was not enough proof of his existence. When the thrill of his days stopped following him home, when the nights became one long diatribe of his failure so loud even Jack Daniels couldn’t shut it up, his bed became the new battleground against the emptiness. One flash of those baby blues and he could have anybody he wanted; anybody except the one he had walked away from. Times being what they were, his career as one of the industry’s leading men could weather a few hits regardless of whether his playmates had dicks or not, and he enjoyed them with equal abandon. Even the HIV scare didn’t slow him down. The broken nose and cracked jaw he received after calling out someone else’s name at the wrong moment finally put an end to his thrill-seeking days. In his hospital bed he welcomed back the scared, little boy from the corner, embracing the inevitable: his soul was not his own, and hadn’t been since New Zealand.  
  
Finagling a last minute ticket to the show had been easy compared to grabbing a cab. He eventually had to call in another studio favor to have a car sent. Sitting still did not last long, though, especially when he was forcibly told that this was a non-smoking car and his nails had been chewed to beyond recognition. He was let out five blocks from the Theatre. No worries over being recognized haunted him, though. He had perfected the art of blending in, not being seen, over the past 7 years.  
  
His unsuccessful attempt to banish his memory from his heart had taught him to accept his fate. That he had once had true love, but, through his weakness, had allowed it to slip through his fingers. That’s when he became a watcher. Publicity shots, video clips, everything he could get his eyes on, he devoured. For seven years, through the magic of those studio PR machines, he watched his lost love go from second fiddle hobbit, to A-list actor, to Oscar nominated best director.  
  
He had always hated wearing glasses. As if his geeky body frame and stupid grin were not enough; plop glasses on top and you’ve got the poster child for dorkiness. He NEVER went out in public with them on until he discovered, while recuperating in the hospital, they became his ticket to anonymity. Once, when he was in LA for contract negotiations, he slipped on his glasses and went to a speech he was giving about the protection of the state’s natural wildlife. Even from the back row he could see past the concerned citizen veneer to the unhappy man underneath. Arms were aching to hold him, but he knew that possibility was not his. He left the hall vowing not to be that stupid again. In the future he would have to be more careful. In his desperation, he had almost cried out his name.  
  
  
By the time he arrived at the Kodak, the focus had shifted to inside and the California sun had plastered his shirt to his back. Pushing aside thoughts of the men’s room, he found shade out back by the loading docks. A much better solution to his nervousness; the bathroom would be crowded and the last thing he wanted right now was forced small talk. _Well, I’m here now. What’s next? In the press room? By the limos? The after party?_ All of those were public, but he so wanted to be there when he won, (and he _would_ win), wanted to be there when all those snide Goonie and hobbit remarks got shoved down those smirking throats as his name was read as the winner. Not as a part of his personal life, no, that had been forfeited 7 years ago. But, as one of the professionals he had touched on his journey to film history. The Theatre, then. He would sneak in during a commercial break and watch him win. Just like the last time.  
  
He had missed his win at the Golden Globes (filming in London), and the SAG awards (recovering in the hospital), but he had made it to the DGA ceremony. Had stood right beside PJ in the wings and listened to him ramble on about integrity, honesty and the Teamster’s union. Peter noticed it. He was wearing his goofy child-like grin. It was something about being that close to him again, and for that brief moment the old fire had come back into those hazel eyes and he could almost believe that he would say one more thank you, walk off the stage and run right into his arms. It passed quickly, though, and he was watching him again from the shadows. He so wanted to see those eyes glow again, another reason to be in the Theatre. They had been too long blank and dull. And if the fire wasn’t for him, at least they would be shining.  
  
He had no more excuses; his last cigarette had been smoked and according to the stage door guard, they were on the last commercial break before the director Oscar. It was now or never. Straightening his tie, slicking back his unruly hair, and popping 3 cinnamon Altoids, he walked around the building and reached the red carpet. No one was expecting to see a celebrity of his caliber this way, so he caught the press crew off guard. After a few off-handed remarks about time zones and his knack for showing up late for everything, he came to the front doors of the Theatre. He hadn’t realized how nauseous with worry he had become until a blast of AC hit him square in the face. Walking across the lobby, he almost ran back outside three times. Something kept him walking across that incredibly thick carpet to the auditorium, made him stand in the back of the house, searching over the sea of overly made-up and under dressed people. He was finally going to walk back onto that beach and stay.  
  
  
He knew what was coming, could feel the end emanating from his body the moment he was greeted at the door by two flying bundles of girl. The very air reeked of goodbye as dinner was served and he refused to look anywhere but his plate. She had left with the girls immediately, never acknowledging his presence. Turning around from clearing the table, he had noticed the dining room empty and the deck door open. He was standing down by the water, just staring, shoulders heaving, silent. He wanted to stay put, right there in the house, didn’t want to hear what had to be said. But, he couldn’t leave his love in such pain. So, he walked down to the surf, each step more difficult then the last. No words were said, only the note, a defeated shake of a head, and his world came crashing down. He had given up that night; had walked back into the house, out to his car and away without a word. He should have said something then, but didn’t. And for 7 long, lonely years that little boy had continued to walk away in silence.  
  
He had understood why; he loved the girls, too. Through unsigned birthday cards, notes and gifts he had remained a part of their lives: the absent ‘uncle’ ever watching. It could not have been a fairy tale childhood, living in a house with two people and the lack of love between them so apparent. Perceptive things, those girls. And sneaky. The email received from the oldest had been deleted immediately unanswered. The banishment continued.  
  
Well, it was over now, one way or the other. After several anxious moments _(What if the wanker hadn’t shown up?)_ his eyes spotted him bouncing nervously in the 5th row. All obstacles had disappeared now. She had walked away this time. He didn’t move at first, so much practice at just watching, probably. He secretly wished he had taken the time to come up with something to say, some witty repartee; or maybe something poignant. He would have even settled for a Tolkien quote at this point. The only one that came to his mind was not even his, but Sam’s: “Whether or no…” _How ironic is that?_ That was happening to him a lot lately, his inability to form coherent sentences.  
  
  
3 o’clock in the morning and he was sitting in the front office of his hotel staring at the compose page of Yahoo mail. His own laptop was a continent away, and it had taken a little charm, (those baby blues, remember?), to convince the 40ish desk clerk to allow him access to the internet. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to just appear in his face without any warning. He didn’t like to be surprised like that; everything, right down to the time he brushed his teeth in the morning, was planned out and scheduled. His impetuous visit might have a negative reaction. He knew this was a last chance here, and he wanted nothing to screw it up. The blank message was making him crazy! _Since when are you at a loss for words?_ Never, unless it came to him. Nothing had come to him on that beach, and nothing was coming now.  
  
“Having trouble?”  
  
He nearly jumped out of his chair at the voice.  
  
The desk clerk handed him an unasked for, but greatly appreciated cup of coffee. She stole a glance at the monitor. “Email is so impersonal, don’t you think? Oh, I know its convenient and all. Just prefer to look in the other person’s eyes when I talk to them, ya know?”  
  
The caffeine helped to calm his nerves and clear his head. “Want to give someone the heads up about my being somewhere. Just don’t know how to say it.”  
  
“If you’re asking my opinion…” Her eyebrows raised, and he nodded his assent. “Then, I’d say, nothing fancy. You’re going to be seeing this person later, right? Leave the heavy stuff ‘til then. Make it short and sweet. With no mystery. I hate getting messages like that, from folks who think they’re being clever. If I want clever, I’ll read Jane Austen.”  
  
“Short and sweet,” he repeated as he turned back to the monitor, “Just the facts.”  
  
“And, not that it’s any of my business, mind you,” she said in a motherly tone, “But, I would suggest something a little less casual in the clothes department. Want to make a good impression, no?”  
  
Looking down, he realized he had been wearing the same t-shirt and jeans for the past two days as he skulked about the hotel waiting for February 23rd to arrive. He smiled his best boyish grin. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”  
  
The front desk telephone buzzed and the desk clerk turned to leave the tiny back office. He called his thanks for all her help. “No problem. Anything to help The Ringbearer.”  
  
 _Like I haven’t heard that one before._  
  
Fishing a crumpled scrap out of his pocket, he typed the address in the top box. He had carried that piece of paper, the corner of a script page torn out, for over a year. A concerned friend had sent it to him, but he had never had the guts to use it. That was until now.  
  
The subject line was easy. “For You.” Because everything was.  
  
“Short and sweet,” he mumbled as he typed.  
  
 _Sean,  
  
See you at the Oscars.  
  
Lij_  
  
He toyed with the idea of using the pet name ‘Doodle’, but didn’t want to push it. His diminutive was enough. The little arrow icon hovered over the send box for just a second before one minute flick of his index finger pushed his message out into cyberspace. It was sent and he would be going to the Oscars. Now all he had to do was find something to occupy his time for the next 13 ½ hours before he confronted both his dream and his nightmare.  
  
The new pants chafed as he walked down the aisle. _Paid too much for this fucking straight jacket_. And he could feel his nervous perspiration pooling under his arms. His unorthodox entrance garnered a few shocked stares and quite a number of whispered comments. He really didn’t give a flying fuck right about now. His eyes were on the head of wavy brown hair in the fifth row. PJ lumbered on to the stage. _In shoes AND a tie, no less!_ Now that he had traveled the long trek, 7 years in the making, down the aisle, he realized he had nowhere to sit. A silent flurry of activity and he found the seat directly behind him graciously vacated by a tastefully dressed woman clutching an Oscar. He was still bouncing, totally oblivious to the row behind. Which was a good thing because now that he was here he found this recent affliction with words had followed him into the Theatre. They would not come to him. He desperately wanted to say something, anything. Words of encouragement, praise, love. But, he had zilch. PJ’s scripted preamble over, he launched into the nominees. His name was the first one announced, it starting with ‘A’, and that’s when the scared little boy, who had walked off that beach 7 years ago, who had cowered in the corner ever since, rescued him by reaching out to the one person he had been hoping would find him. His hand lay lightly on his shoulder, imbuing his spirit with the balm of cool peace. It was the barest of squeezes in response, but more that enough for him. He need not be afraid anymore.  
  
PJ’s announcement was almost missed, so enraptured by their touch. Nevertheless, there he was, being pushed out into the aisle by his brother. Everyone was cheering, applauding, crying around him and he couldn’t help himself. The little boy had been set free of his burdens, and before his hard-won maturity could tell him otherwise, he jumped on his back, giggling like an idiot. So unbecoming of a leading man. He didn’t care. He cared even less when he was crushed against that broad chest. The curious stares of the Oscar audience were ignored when he saw in those hazel eyes (which were indeed shining, by the way) the question he had been waiting to answer. Love? A simple nod. And everyone else in the entire world could go take a fucking leap off the tallest place they could find on such short notice when warm, never forgotten lips were pressed to his. The kiss was brief; not passionate at all. Yet, it certainly sent a message out across the completely dead, absence-of-air silent auditorium. _He is mine_ , that’s what the kiss said, _he is mine_.  
  
He would be forced to admit later that he hadn’t really been listening to all of that acceptance speech. Too busy watching, you know? He did catch PJ’s wink in his direction, though, and the last part he would demand to have repeated to him again and again. “I’m sorry, the wait is over, it begins here, and I love you, Elijah Jordan Wood.”  



	3. ...makes One

**...makes One**

 

“Wanker! My Oscar is equal to your two Globes.”  
  
“Then there’s the two SAGS…”  
  
“Same here.”  
  
“The BAFTA and Cannes.”  
  
“NY and LA Film Critics.”  
  
“People’s Choice.”  
  
“Ah, well, there you have me, Lij. My entire career shot down by a People’s Choice.”  
  
“Glad to see you are man enough to admit it.”  
  
The giggles that followed with the tickling could be heard three streets over.  
  
It was the end of March and the early spring sunshine reflected off the pools tucked in behind the houses in their small San Clemente neighborhood. It was a happy time. Both had been away, one in Hawaii, the other in DC for several weeks, and neither of them did separation very well. But, they were home now.  
  
“Give! Enough, Sean, enough!”  
  
He looked down at the red and smiling face trapped beneath him. “Say it. Say my accomplishments are just as grand as yours.”  
  
A stuck out tongue was his response.  
  
Knowing just where to place his fingers to inflict the most damage, they dug into the spot right below his armpits. “Say it!”  
  
This time Lij was given no moment’s respite from the tickling and he had to gasp out his response. “OK, OK! Your accomplishments. Grand, same as mine.”  
  
Sean was satisfied and sat back; Lij’s bent knees supporting him from behind. The body below still twitched with residual laughter. “Thank you for that unsolicited praise.”  
  
  
Wiping tears from his ears, the one on the bottom said, “Yeah, whatever you say, old man.”  
  
Double take time. “Old man? Did you just call me an old man?”  
  
Screwing up his face in mock contemplation, Lij said, “Let me see. Yeah, I think I did.”  
  
Sean seemed to be taken aback by that for a minute, then brought a wicked grin to his lips. “So, I’m an old man, am I? Well, let me just show you what this old man can do.”  
  
In no mood to be tickled again, the younger man reached up and brought that now clean shaven face to his. “Please, Seanie, show me what you can do.”  
  
That kiss lasted six sensual minutes. How did they know? That’s how long the dryer had left on its cycle. The buzzer sounded and Sean was up in an instant. The girls were coming over to spend the weekend with Dad and Uncle Lij, and those beds needed to be aired out and made fresh after the three week absence. Their bed, the one in the master bedroom, had been changed several times since their return two days ago. Three weeks was a long time for them to be apart, and it had taken a while before both had felt caught up.  
  
It hadn’t begun like after the Oscars. It had taken a few months for the divorce to be final, for Elijah to settle things overseas and in New York, countless friends, relations and co-workers to inform. Of course, most had watched the Oscars and saw everything for themselves. When the clip of them kissing, (not, friendly, ‘oh, let’s be cute for the cameras’ kissing, but hungry, passionate, back from the war, return from the dead kissing), at the After party, all those who had spent the past 7 years with them, including the brother, the mother, the sister, the secretary, even the desk clerk and the purple suited rapper, all said collectively, “About damn time!” The concerned friend, who turned out to have a decidedly British accent and a twinkle in his eye, just smiled and nodded.  
  
They had to find each other again, learn about this new person that a life apart had made. Elijah soon discovered that, while Sean was still a compulsive neat freak and overly cautious, those little things that always jump in your path did not bother him, even if they did knock him off schedule. For Elijah’s part, he was still mind-numbingly messy and stubborn about the number of times he would hit the snooze button before crawling out of bed, but now he was calmer, more circumspect about life and how precious it could be.   
  
Sean would not move away from his daughters, so the house in San Clemente became theirs. It made no never mind to Elijah; they could have lived in a cardboard box under the 405 for all he cared. As long as Sean was there at night, snuggling his warmth and strength into him, that was enough.  
  
  
“I’ll get the sheets!” Sean called as he raced down the short hallway to the laundry room, and the phone began to ring.  
  
“And I guess I’ll get that.” Lij rolled up from his position on the floor and crawled to the cordless by the bed. “Hello?”  
  
The backlash of that night had happened quickly, and lasted for all of about a month, until studio heads realized that to have either of them, one of the top leading men or the Oscar winning director, associated with their project would not mean the kiss of death, but just the opposite. If the offers of work did not come pouring in, there was at least a steady stream, and both had the luxury of picking and choosing which films they wanted. Ideal situations saw them working in the same place, or at least close by. When that did not occur, there were always the friendly skies and the anticipation of a homecoming welcome to look forward to.  
  
“Who was that?” Sean asked, jogging by with the full basket of fresh smelling and still warm laundry.  
  
“That, my dear Seanie, was your teenage daughter, Lizzie.”  
  
Sean stuck his head back in the door. “Oh?”  
  
“Yes,” he answered as he hung up the phone. “Seems she forgot something very important that she just absolutely, positively, without a doubt, had to do tonight, and won’t be coming until tomorrow.”  
  
“Oh,” Sean repeated. He walked back into the room and plopped down on the bed. “Well, that’s when Ali’s coming.”  
  
Elijah knelt beside the bed, leaning his elbows on the goose down duvet. “She did say she would stay an extra day to make up for it, though.”  
  
That seemed to brighten Sean’s mood. “OK, then. Their visit is just postponed until tomorrow, that’s all.”  
  
Sean would brook no arguments: he would not be an absent father, and would see his girls on a regular basis. Having no desire for a long court battle over custody, Chris agreed. Her remarriage had taken place last September and it eased Sean’s mind when he saw that she was indeed happy.  
  
Ecstatic. That was the girls’ reaction to having Uncle Lij back in their lives. Of course, they let it slip that he never had actually left, seeing as his gifts and cards always arrived every year just like clockwork.  
  
Elijah took the laundry basket from Sean’s hands and set in on the floor at the foot of the bed. Pushing his way between those legs, he took his lover’s face in his hands. “She also told me to give you this.”  
  
This one lasted longer than six minutes, (no timer), and carried them back to the bed with Lij resting on Sean’s chest.  
  
“Lizzie told you to give me that?”  
  
“Well, she told me to give you a kiss,” Lij answered, fiddling with the buttons on Sean’s shirt, “I just used artistic license when delivering it.”  
  
Sean was drawing his fingers across Lij’s lips, still warm from his own. “Artistic license?”  
  
“Well, sure,” he replied. The unbuttoning job compete, he dragged his hands through Sean’s chest hair, his little fingers brushing the nipples. “As an artist, I am free…”  
  
Sean arched his eyebrow. “Free?”  
  
“Relatively inexpensive.” He tweaked a nipple causing Sean’s bemused expression to change quickly.  
  
“OW!”  
  
“Are you going to allow me to finish without further interruptions?”  
  
Putting his hands behind his head, Sean relaxed under his lover’s hands. “By all means, Mr. Wood, please continue.”  
  
He loved the feel of Sean’s muscles under his hands, and loved those low grumbly noises he made even better. “As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, as an artist, I am fr…expected to interpret things, using my creative sensibilities to bring forth new meaning to what would otherwise be just lifeless and run-of-the-mill.”  
  
“Let me see…bringing to life that which was lifeless,” Sean said as he began to move his hips against Lij’s. A small groan, and a bulge grew with the younger man’s body. “Am I doing this right, Master Artist?”  
  
Elijah’s hips matched the rhythm started, his hands working on Sean’s fly. “I think you have a basic knowledge, oh, pupil mine,” he moved to the side in order to slip the jeans and boxers off Sean’s hips and to the floor, “But, I believe a practical demonstration is needed to illustrate my meaning.” He knelt on the floor again, his hands rubbing the inside of Sean’s thighs.  
  
“Well, then, I better take notes.” Sean shot straight up, making a move to jump off the bed. His teasing was cut short by Elijah’s lips on his erection.  
  
The road back to intimacy was an even tougher one. They both agreed to take things slowly, but the desperate passion that had built up over those 7 long years had them ripping clothes off the moment their bodies hit the mattress. It did not end in mind blowing, dimension altering, hang from the ceiling fan sex, though. It had ended in tears. They wept for the sheer joy of holding each other as lovers once more. In the morning, when they awoke, the tears began again, both having believed the safe shape beside them all night had been a dream.  
  
Sean listened compassionately while Elijah spun the tales of his life without Sean; no recriminations, only acceptance and understanding. Elijah was in awe when Sean confessed after those few bumbling attempts with Chris, sex had not entered his life. Taking his lover’s hands in his, Elijah vowed, with all seriousness, that Sean would never go without again. Sean thanked him sincerely, and then the next day upped his vitamin intake.  
  
His view was incredible: Elijah on his knees with him in his mouth. It was magic, that mouth. From the full lips that could grin in 10 year old wonder and kiss fire onto skin, to the tongue always ready with a sharp comment or a foul, yet amazingly appropriate, word and could lick the most stubborn of men, (read Sean), into submission. It had been the memories of that mouth that had buoyed Sean through the long, boring and mostly useless committee meetings in Washington. A few embarrassing moments he had been forced to cover with stuttering apologies because, instead of paying attention to the latest reasons why the budget cuts had to increase all across the board and not just the Family Literacy program, Sean had been reliving what that mouth was doing to him right now.  
  
His hands wound aimlessly through his lover’s hair. “Oh, God, Lij…” came out a breathy rasp. That tongue had just played ring around the rosie with his tip.  
  
Allowing his hand to continue the rhythm started, Lij pulled Sean out of his mouth to say, “Let’s talk about my deification at a later date. I’m kinda’ busy, if you hadn’t noticed.”  
  
“Yeah, I’m vaguely aware of your activities.”  
  
“Vaguely?” Lij said around Sean’s finger he was sucking on, “I’ll show you vague.”  
  
Those low grumbly noises burst forth as full grown moans when Lij buried Sean in the back of his throat.  
  
Sean had been concerned, (scared shitless, was more like it), at the abrupt turn his life had taken. ‘Be careful what you wish for…’ as the saying goes, and he had indeed been wishing for Elijah to be with him for so long that the possibility of it ever happening seemed, well impossible. But, within the time it took for life’s eternal clock to click over to the next minute, there Lij was, bouncing to overflowing right beside him. For weeks after the Oscars, it still felt unreal; he would reach out to touch a face, an arm just to confirm what his eyes were telling him: Elijah was his. And then those eyes would mist over with the sheer elation of it all. He lived in that state until the first morning after Lij came to join him at his home. He filled out the change of address form from euphoria to reality when he saw his bathroom. He needed Lij with him; he resonated in every fiber of Sean’s being, and, as he stepped around the sloppy wet towels to put the cap back on the toothpaste, refill the toilet paper roll and shut off the faucet in the shower completely, those fibers were humming. Had he lived too long a solitary figure, too set in his ways to change now? Moment by moment, as Lij began to hit the hamper and Sean learned to step over those wet towels, did he have the answer to his question: yes and no. But, through compromise, understanding and a shit load of love that answer was slowly tipping in favor of the no.  
  
Clenching his teeth to hold on to one more shred of Elijah’s mouth, Sean glanced down again. All his lover need do now was to look up at him with those baby blues brimming with love and he would be gone. Elijah did, and Sean came hard and loud in that velvet mouth. The demonstration was over.  
  
“I stand in awe of the master,” Sean managed to say, his chest heaving.  
  
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but after that, you shouldn’t be able to stand at all.”  
  
Giggling a Lij giggle, Sean held up his hands for his love to join him. But, the doorbell rang, and, being the only one properly dressed for meeting anyone, Elijah went to answer the door.  
  
There were some nights that he would slip out of Sean’s slumbering embrace and just wander the silent house alone. Trailing fingers would breeze over the furniture, the chair rail along the walls, the door knobs. Even the small appliances and switch plates fascinated him. This was his house. This was his and Sean’s HOME. He had occupied countless houses, apartments, hotel rooms in his life, each one only a spot to sleep, a location to drop his things, a place to hide when the little boy needed to escape. Roof and walls, with a couple of doors and a toilet thrown in, that’s all they had been to him. This house, however, this place, 142 Calle Pastadero, San Clemente, CA 92673, was not only the house with his stuff spread all over, it was where his heart lived as well.  
  
Elijah was in the kitchen when Sean found him. He had hastily pulled on a pair of sweat pants when the object of his desire did not return to the bedroom. A bottle of Dasani water unopened and forgotten sat next to his leaning hand on the left, a ripped open Fed Ex envelope discarded at his right, and all of Elijah focused on what lay on the counter before him.  
  
A page flip. Then another. An exhalation of air and a palm rubbing the back of his neck.  
  
Sean watched him for a few more seconds until the way those slightly baggy jeans of his that could hide and accentuate his ass at the same time drove him to realize those extra vitamins certainly lived up to their claims.  
  
Elijah knew he was there; always did, had an awareness when it came to Sean’s presence. He didn’t turn around immediately, but pushed away from the counter, arching his back, sticking his butt out. That would get him.  
  
Enfolding him from behind, Sean’s mouth assailed Elijah’s neck, his hands working on the removal of the t-shirt that stood between him and Lij’s skin. It became a heap on the floor, the jeans soon following. Now all was open and free for Sean to play with, and Elijah stood ready for his lover to claim him.  
  
But, he didn’t.  
  
“Deification?”  
  
Elijah’s eyes snapped open. “What?”  
  
With his lips poised right above the one tiny spot right behind Lij’s left ear, Sean murmured, “Deification. Where in god’s name, no pun intended, did you learn that word?”  
  
He couldn’t believe they were having a quiz right now. “How the fuck should I know? From you, maybe?”  
  
Frowning, Sean, said, “I don’t think so. Don’t recall having used that word recently.”  
  
Elijah hung his head in frustration. “You remember everything you say?” Pushing back into Sean, he used his naked ass as a gentle reminder of just what this musing was interrupting.  
  
“Well, yea, especially a word like that. No conversation that we’ve had as come evens the slightest bit close to discussing a higher power or supreme being.”  
  
Speaking of conversations, Elijah’s was done with this one. He grabbed Sean’s hair and tugged his lover’s head over his own shoulder, bringing them nose to nose. “Astin, shut the hell up and just fuck me.”  
  
Sean smiled. “Now, that’s more like the stunted vocabulary I’ve grown accustomed to.” His tongue went back to work.  
  
“I’ll try to stick to monosyllabic words from now on.” Lij held Sean’s head down as he reached for the lube in the second drawer on the right. “Forget I said that.”  
  
  
  
That first holiday season was going to be spent alone, just the two of them, in bed, naked, with occasional trips to the kitchen for reinforcements and a joke or two about Yule logs thrown in for good measure. The impromptu visit of brother and mother only put their timetable back a bit. Then a delegation from The Shire showed up unannounced on their doorstep, quickly followed by a representative from the forest of Mirkwood. By the time the sun set over the Pacific Ocean, all the free peoples of Middle Earth, wizards included, were well represented and firmly ensconced in their living room. The only peace found was under their deck. That was when they learned the lesson about having the necessary items in every room of the house.  
  
Sean stepped back from the flawless body of his lover to slip his sweat pants off. “Lij, baby…”  
  
“Yes, Seanie?” he replied in a husky voice.  
  
“Want to see your face, Lij, need to see your eyes.”  
  
When the tears had been spent and they were finally able to lie next to each other without the enormity of the moment overtaking them, an amazing thing happened. When love and passion had been new, when first declared during an extended bitch session on the prospect of spending one more day surrounded by styrofoam rocks, their hands, mouth and bodies had been frantic, wildly grabbing everything and trying to squeeze as much of each other into the few sparse moments that they had stolen. Love had been new; it had been intense and forbidden. Those new love quickies still occurred, in hotel rooms on short visits, in elevators in very tall buildings, in a limo once on the way to a premiere, (Sean in a tux got Elijah hot every time). However, now when their bodies joined, it was with a slow steadiness that spoke of timelessness. They had passed their exile in the desert without each other, and their passion, nurtured in the heart and soul, had survived, growing steel at its core.   
  
Elijah turned around to his lover. This was the way Sean always took him now, face to face, looking directly into his eyes. Lij had asked him once why, when before it didn’t matter what position they were in, as long as he was inside. Sean had demurred, but Lij pressed him into answering. With a soft voice, Sean explained, “In your eyes _is_ you, all of you, body and spirit. When I’m inside you, we are together in body. When I watch you as we make love, I can see me in there. I am in your eyes, and our souls are connected, too.  
  
The next time Sean entered him, Elijah cried. He saw himself in Sean’s eyes.  
  
“Come to me, love,” Sean whispered.  
  
They still had their bad days; what two human beings didn’t? They quibbled over toast crumbs on the butter. They argued about what flavor of ice cream to buy. They bitched over the temperature the thermostat should be set on. One thing they did not fight about was the past. That was gone. Long narratives of those dark days, written by Sean and Elijah, were set free. Holding hands on the beach, they watched it all float away with the tide. Now was their time.  
  
Eagerly, Elijah slipped into Sean’s lap, built perfectly to hold him.  
  
“Love you, Lij.” Sean stared into blue.  
  
“You, too, Seanie.” Elijah fell into hazel.  
  
And two made one.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Boy howdy, you can tell that this was written a LONG time ago, 2004 to be exact.


End file.
